The Airshipmen: A Novel Based on a True Story. A Tale of Love, Betrayal & Political Intrigue.

by David Dennington

  “So am I. I’m leaving this morning,” Booth whispered and then in a loud voice, “I’m sorry I can’t tell you anything. They’ll put out a statement later, when in possession of the facts.” Booth opened the front door. “That’s all I can tell you. Goodbye.”

  Booth’s face was more kindly than his words sounded down the corridor.

  “We’ll see you over there,” Norway muttered.

  Booth shut and locked the doors behind them.

  They left Cardington House and walked the half mile down to the gate, where a crowd had gathered. Norway went to the gatekeeper.

  “Jim, what’s going on?”

  “Mr. Norway, they’ve ‘eard something about the airship. They keep asking me. I can’t tell ’em anything. No one’s told me a damned thing and they won’t come down ’ere and talk to these people. It ain’t right, keepin’ people in the dark like this!”

  The gatekeeper unlocked the small side gate and Charlotte and her companions stepped outside. The desperate crowd surged forward. Charlotte found it heartbreaking to see people in such a state. They rushed at Norway.

  “Is it true, sir?”

  “What can you tell us?”

  The crowd surrounded them.

  “You’ve h-heard something about the air-sh-ship?”

  “You heard it went down?” Charlotte said.

  All eyes centered on Charlotte.

  “Yes, we ‘eard a rumor, m’am, my boy’s on that ship,” one desperate man said.

  “Look, I’m going to be honest with you. My husband’s on that ship, too. We heard it went down and there are a few survivors. That’s all we know. I’m so sorry. We must go.”

  A bus drew up nearby.

  “Oh, yes. You’re the American’s wife.”

  “God Bless you, miss. I hope your ’usband’s all right,” someone said.

  The crowd parted for them as they went for the bus. They climbed aboard and looked back at the unhappy faces. Charlotte wondered when they’d be told the facts.

  They got off at the top of Kelsey Street and walked to No. 58. It felt strange seeing her old house again. Charlotte was desolate—she’d betrayed Lou. She found herself staring at the oil patch where he always parked his motorbike. She wondered where it was now. She’d heard about Lou and Billy's accident from Fanny, who'd been to see her the previous evening. After receiving Lou's call at Goole Hospital, Fanny had been shocked to learn from other sources that Charlotte had walked out on Lou weeks earlier. She dashed over to Charlotte's parents' place to find Charlotte. After catching up, Fanny told her about their collision with the painter's van. Charlotte had been relieved the boy was safe and not aboard that damned airship.

  As she walked across the concrete parking area in front of the house, she looked at Mrs. Jones's window. Fluffy was sitting on the windowsill, inside. She’d seen Charlotte and was making a fuss. Soon, Mrs. Jones appeared at the window. Her face lit up.

  Charlotte stood at the foot of the steps and looked up, noticing the stains. She had no idea what it was. It looked like dried blood. It made her shudder. She unlocked the door and they went in. There was a white envelope bearing her name lying on the hall table. She slipped into the living room and opened it. The card simply said,

  My Darling Charlotte,

  I’ll take you to see the full-size statue one day soon.

  God, I’ve missed you!

  All my Love

  Lou XXXX

  Many more kisses to come!

  She wasn’t sure what it meant until the clock chimed on the mantelpiece. Next to it, was the Sitting Lincoln statue he’d bought for her. She felt empty inside. They trooped down to the kitchen where Charlotte opened the window to let in some fresh air. Everything was tidy. Mrs. Jones knocked on the front door and came down stairs with Fluffy, who was making a hell of row—admonishing Charlotte.

  “What’s happening, Charlotte? Are you back?” Mrs. Jones said.

  There was an awkward silence. Mrs. Jones looked from one to the other. Then she realized something was up.

  “What is it, dear?”

  “There’s been an accident,” John said.

  “The airship?”

  “It crashed,” Charlotte said.

  “What about Lou?”

  “We think he may have s-survived,” Norway said. “But we d-don’t

  know for sure.”

  “What about the rest of ’em”

  “Nobody knows, or at least they ain’t telling anybody,” John said.

  “Well, there’s been nothing in the paper about it,” Mrs. Jones said.

  “It happened in the night, so there won’t be,” Charlotte said.

  “George Hunter said the Express stopped the presses early this morning and was doing a special late edition. Maybe we can get one,” Norway said.

  Charlotte said, “Look, if you don’t mind, I’m going to walk round to Olivia Irwin’s house. I must see her.”

  Before leaving, Charlotte went upstairs to their bedroom. It was tidy, but not as tidy as she’d left it. Their portraits were still on the wall. She spent a moment studying them. Lou looked handsome. Happier days. Then she noticed his guitar was missing from its hook on the wall on his side of the bed—then the gaping hole in the wardrobe door. She pictured the scene, feeling regret she’d caused Lou so much pain.

  Oh, God, that must have hurt. My poor dear Lou.

  She opened the wardrobe door and peered inside. Her heart sank. In the bottom was the guitar, or what was left of it, in a thousand pieces. It broke her heart. She realized just how much she’d hurt him. She sat on the edge of the bed and wept. She got up and went to the sink in the bathroom, washed her face and re-did her makeup. He was all that mattered.

  Please God, let him live.

  Twenty minutes later Charlotte was on Olivia’s doorstep ringing the bell. It was some minutes before Olivia appeared in her dressing gown, her eyes cast down. There was both rage and sorrow in her lovely, ashen face. She held the door open in silence for Charlotte to enter. As soon as the door was closed, Charlotte put her arms around her and they both cried bitterly. They went into the living room.

  The house felt dead. Only the ticking clock on the mantelpiece made any sound.

  “How did you find out?” Charlotte whispered.

  “We both knew he wasn’t coming back…” Olivia dropped her head. “…Booth was here early this morning.”

  “You both sensed all this coming?” Charlotte asked.

  “Yes. I went back to the ship last night. I begged and pleaded with him.”

  “But he still went.”

  “Yes. How could he not? They made him go. They damn-well forced him!”

  Charlotte didn’t want to talk about survivors. It’d seem cold. But Olivia brought it up.

  “Booth said Lou’s alive,” she said suddenly. “He’s injured. He said some won’t live.”

  Charlotte let out a sob. “Oh God!”

  He could still die.

  She was brought back by Olivia’s weary voice.

  “I went and saw that damned gypsy last week.” She sounded bitter.

  “Oh, Olivia!”

  “I just couldn’t resist. Fat lot of good it did. She said, ‘the bells will toll for them’.”

  “She was right.”

  “And then, that pilot’s wife came to see me.”

  “Mrs. Hinchliffe?”

  “Yes. She came knocking on the door just before they left. She told me they had no chance of survival. She said her dead husband had told her this.”

  “I wish I’d known.”

  “What could you have done? You were gone. Anyway, it wouldn’t have made a difference. That bloody Thomson had his own agenda. It was all his damned fault!”

  “I suppose he’s dead, too,” Charlotte said.

  Charlotte left Olivia and walked back toward Kelsey Street. On her way, she went past the corner store to see if she could get a Sunday Express. Inside, there was a crowd of nervous people with the same
idea. News of the crash was out. People in the corner store were desperate and very angry.

  “We need news,” somebody said, as if Alan, the store owner, had influence with the press. He held up both his hands, trying to quell the storm.

  “I made a phone call. The Sunday Express has printed a late edition, but we’ve not been able to get any yet. The Bedford Circular is printing a late paper right now. It should be getting here any time,” he told them.

  Somebody saw a Daily Express van slowing down outside. A bundle of newspapers tied up with string was thrown out on the ground from the tail gate and it tore off up the street. Everybody stampeded from the shop and grabbed at the newspapers like crazy people. In seconds, they were all gone. The lucky ones stood reading the front page with people gathered around them. Charlotte read the headlines of the Sunday Express over someone’s shoulder.

  CARDINGTON R101 CRASHES ON FRENCH HILLSIDE

  Air Minister Lord Thomson and Director of Civil Aviation Among the Dead Nine Survivors: Some Severely Injured In Beauvais Hospital

  Charlotte’s heart sank. She kept thinking of how she’d refused to let him in her parents’ house. She’d deserve it if he died now. She couldn’t help thinking of old Mrs.Tilly’s last words.

  You’ll find someone special. I just know you will. And when you do, you grab ’im and ’old on to ’im and never let ’im go.

  In despair, Charlotte headed for the Bedford and District Circular’s office on the High Street in town. As she approached the square, she heard a brass band playing Chopin’s “Funeral March.”

  Damn! As if people aren’t depressed enough.

  She walked round the square to the newspaper office where a crowd had gathered. This’d become a command post for news and exchange of information. She spotted John on the other side and went over to him. He’d come here, leaving Norway at home in case the phone rang.

  Bundles of newspapers were being unloaded from a van and put into a stack for people to take free of charge. A blackboard had been chalked up with survivor’s names. Charlotte read them, knowing most of these men. Their faces came to mind. The reality of seeing Lou’s name made her stomach turn over.

  Dear God, please let him live. …They all die someday, Charlotte.

  Survivors as of 10 a.m. this morning – Unconfirmed.

  L. Remington—3rd Officer USN

  A. Disley—Electrician

  H. Leech—Foreman Engineer

  J. Binks—Engineer.

  A. Bell—Engineer.

  W. Radcliffe—Engineer.

  V. Savoury—Engineer.

  A. Cook—Engineer.

  S. Church—Rigger

  While everyone gathered around the blackboard in hushed silence, the Salvation Army band marched up and down the road spreading the gloom. There was little or no traffic and people spoke reverently in whispers, as if in church. People sobbed into their handkerchiefs. A bell tolled close by. As soon as one stopped, another started elsewhere. And so it went. It was unnerving to hear the howling of someone's dog.

  There was one girl Charlotte recognized after a few moments. It was the pregnant Rosie Cameron. Well, that was no surprise. She wondered whose child it was.

  “I’m walking with the Lord,” Jessup had told her.

  What a laugh!

  Charlotte wondered what had happened to him.

  They’re probably both dead. ...Poor Doug.

  She watched Rosie trudge off up the road in tears and felt enormous sympathy for her.

  Silly little fool! Where’s the justice?

  A man came out of the newspaper offices and whispered behind his hand into the ear of the man at the blackboard. He picked up a damp cloth and rubbed out Radcliffe’s name. A great moan went up in the crowd. One woman let out a terrible scream.

  John put his hand on Charlotte’s shoulder. “Come on, let’s go home,” he said.

  “I must go and see Sam Church’s girl, Irene, on the way. She’s probably at his parents’.”

  “Okay, I’ll come with you,” John said.

  They talked as they left the square. It was good to see John again. Charlotte realized how much she’d missed him.

  “I must say, Charlotte, you’re looking well.”

  “Yes, I’m getting better and I feel stronger.”

  “And you still love him?”

  “Yes, of course I do.”

  John appeared relieved. “You can tell him when we get to Beauvais.”

  John was easy to talk to, caring, as always. It was then, that it all came spilling out, like a dam bursting, surprising her and shocking John.

  “Beauvais …I know it …only too well,” Charlotte said dreamily.

  “What d’you mean?”

  “I was there.”

  Now she screwed up her face as though in terrible pain. John put his arm around her shoulder, totally confused.

  “You mean you were at Cardington Tower when they left last night?”

  “No. I was a nurse in France during the war.”

  Her voice was a whisper, her eyes fixed on his. This came as a hammer blow to John. His face expressed horror as he remembered his son.

  “Dear God! When?”

  “I got there in 1917, before the Americans arrived.”

  Charlotte described how, at the age of seventeen, after working at Pontefract Hospital for two years, and after being inspired by Red Cross recruitment posters, she’d joined to do her bit for King and Country, to care for her sick and dying countrymen. No one in her village, except for her parents and an aunt, knew where she’d gone. They thought she was working in Guy’s Hospital in London. After additional training, she’d been sent to various front-line field hospitals, the first near Arras.

  Morale was in decline; it looked as though the war was lost. The Germans were pounding on the gates of Paris. For French soldiers, Aisne was the last straw—tens of thousands of them were slaughtered—their lives counted for nothing. One regiment mutinied and it spread like wildfire throughout the French Army.

  Nothing could have prepared Charlotte for what she encountered in the squalor of those khaki tents. Hundreds of seriously wounded men lying on cots in states of agony and distress, lingering for days; arms and legs blown off, faces and jaws gone, gaping bleeding wounds—all made worse by plagues of rats and lice. It was their cries that got to her the most: cries for their mothers, cries to be put out of their misery. She’d been proposed to by many soldiers. She’d usually accepted. They always died within a day or two.

  As soon as she arrived at the Front, she assisted a weary, irritable surgeon with amputations and stitching wounds, things she’d never done before. It was a horrific baptism, but she carried on while enemy guns roared close by. She spent eleven months in the field with little or no rest, except for short breaks in Paris, when all she could think of was getting back to care for those poor wretches.

  Charlotte didn’t tell John everything. During one of her Paris breaks she’d met a young French soldier. He’d sat next to her on a bus. His face was beautiful, but full of despair. It broke her heart to look into his mournful, grey eyes. His name was Robert. They’d struck up a conversation. Her French was improving, and he was able to muster a few words in English. He looked at her nurse’s uniform with admiration, as if she were holy.

  “Ange de la miséricorde. Angel of mercy,” he said. “Vous êtes magnifique!”

  They spent the day trudging the streets amongst weary Parisians whose faces registered the same despair, while German guns boomed only forty miles away. They sat in a café drinking coffee where Robert told her sadly that the war was lost. Many in his regiment had torn off their uniforms and thrown down their rifles. Dozens had been shot for desertion.

  “Lâches! Cowards!” he called them. He wouldn’t do that. He’d rather die in the mud of no man’s land than leave France to the barbaric Boche. He was due back at the Front the next morning and reconciled to his fate. After a light meal, they walked in the park, chatting. His mood was elev
ated. At the end of the day, just before dark, he bade her farewell and kissed her tenderly on the lips.

  “Thank you for everything, angel,” he said. “You have lifted me up. I now go goodly.”

  “You mean, gladly.”

  “Yes, gladly,” he said with a slight bow and a smile.

  He saw her onto a bus to her pension. She watched him as it pulled away. She never saw him again, although she looked for him in every crowd and at the café when she returned to Paris. She knew he was dead.

  When the Americans entered the war, Charlotte was sent down from the north to the Château-Thierry/Saint-Mihiel arena with British Forces. A new American offensive had been opened led by General Pershing, along with the revitalized French Army.

  When the war ended, she was sent to Beauvais Hospital to care for those too ill to be moved, or who were chronically sick from the influenza pandemic nicknamed the ‘Spanish flu’. She remained there for six months. When she got back to Ackworth, she never spoke of her experiences, and people, including her parents, knew well enough not to broach the subject. On her arrival, they tried, but she lifted a finger to her lips, and they understood. Soon after that, one of Charlotte’s aunts brought up the war and Charlotte flew into a rage—out of character for her. The war became like the mad relative in the attic—ignored and never to be mentioned. Charlotte erased the horror from her mind. Or so she thought.

  John was deeply touched. “Does Lou know you were there?”

  “No.”

  “My Goodness! You must tell him.”

  “Perhaps you’re right.”

  “What about Fanny, did she know?”

  “No. The only person that knew was the matron at Bedford Hospital. I forget how it came up, but it turned out that she’d been at the Front herself—and somehow she just knew. I confided in her and she completely understood. She was very kind to me.”

  They walked in silence for a few moments and then Charlotte spoke again. “Do you know why I really hate airships, John?”

  She went on to relate how during her first week of training at Guys Hospital, she’d taken a bus ride to Westminster. Suddenly, the bus in front exploded—bombed from the air. Charlotte jumped from her bus and looked up in time to spot the guilty culprit: a tiny, silver Zeppelin lurking high in the sky. She watched it disappear behind a cloud. Seven died that sunny afternoon and eight were severely injured. Setting up a triage station had been her introduction to the war and she knew she’d made the right decision to go to France to help beat this evil enemy.